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From the 

Hea%t 

of the 

Hills 



CLINTON SCOLLARD 
THOMAS S. JONES, Jr. 



Clinton, New York 
GEORGE WILLIAM BROWNING 
1910 



Copyright, March, 1910, hy 
Clinton Scollard and Thomas S. Jones, Jr. 



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The Authors desire to thank the Editors of Harper^& 
Bazar, ThB Outlook, Lippincotfs Magazine, The Metro- 
politan Magazine, and the other periodicals in which 
the poems in this collection originally appeared, for their 
kind permission to reprint. 



©CI.A25642 



To 

«. 3. (6. 



GOOD POET AND GENTLE READER 



IT^S to be out amid them 

When the year is young. 
And the shades and the mists that hid them 

Are backward flung! 
The lilt of the wind to capture, 

The rune of the rills! — 
There's a wondrous, earth-old rapture 

In the heart o' the hills! 

Let us haste, ere the hour is speeded, 

And mount afar 
Where the crests look, unimpeded, 

To the midnight star! 
Where through the pine-wood hoary 

A weird chant thrills! — 
There's a wondrous, earth-old glory 

In the heart o' the hills! 

There virgin dreams have dwelling, 

And joy and hope 
Lead, ivith their calm compelling, 

^rom slope to slope! 
Remote from the world's loud riot, 

Its harrowing ills, 
There's a wondrous earth-old quiet 

In the heart o' the hills! 



From the Heart of the Hills 



THE VOICE OF SILENCE 

I 

DOT in the stress of noon's unshadowed tide 
But where the dusk is vague with memory, 
Down lonely lanes where dreams mayhap abide 
Or far adrift on some unfathomed sea. 

There for the moment, we who knew the flame 
Of one sad day beside life's heedless stream 

May, through the stillness, almost hear the same 
Soft falling w^aters on the shores of dream. 

II 

Did we but always know that this were best, 
These silent trees that gTiard the sunset's rim, 

These old gray hills that once meant only rest 
Nor wavered when our memory grew dim. 

Yet now no loveliness may speed in vain, 

No waste of dawn in youth's fast fading year. 

Sweet with the tenderness of twilight rain 
And wistful with the songs we did not hear. 



T. S. J., Jr. 



8 From the Heart o» thi HiLLa 

WATER - SPRITES 

OVER the hill-slopes and down through the hollows 
The silver-clad water-sprites rally and run, 
As fleet are their feet as the wings of the swallows, 
And whither they fare there's a gladness that follows 
As fresh and as bright and as blithe as the sun. 

And lo, at their touch there awakens, there kindles, 

A subtle, pervasive, unnameable thing! 
The blight upon beauty, like darkness it dwindles, 
For the workers of wonder are whirling their spindles, 

And fingers are lithe on the loom of the Spring. 



C.S. 



From the Hkart of the Hills 



A SONG IN SPRING 

O LITTLE buds all bourgeoning with Spring, 
You hold my winter in forget fulness; 
Without my window lilac branches swing, 
Within my gate I hear a robin sing — 

little laughing blooms that lift and bless! 

So blow the breezes in a soft caress, 

Blowing my dreams upon a swallow's wing; 
little merry buds in dappled dress. 
You fill my heart with very wantonness — 
little buds all bourgeoning with Spring! 



T. S. J., Jr. 



From the Heart of the Hills 



IN A VERNAL WOOD 

IN the wood-cloisters modest violet-nuns 
To-day are saying fragi-ant orisons; 
Jack-in-the-pulpit prates; the bishop's cap 
Is donned anew, and from his snowy nap 
Wake-robin rouses to the bellwort's bells; 
The gipsy-like wayfaring-tree foretells 
Alluring marvels that the addei-'s-tongue 
Bears witness to; and tender maiden cresses, 
A fairy forest of fresh fronds among, 
Shake out the fleecy beauty of their tresses. 
Elusive dart the frail ephemerae 
Above hepatica cups, and the bold bee, 
'Scaped from the winter's prison-gyves of cold, 
Plays Captain Kidd amid the cowslip-gold. 
Wren calls to robin through the swooning hush, 
And vireo and oriole answer thrush 
Across lush swales, or dowii dim aisleways where 
The spiders stretch theii* lacery for a snare. 

Through this fair bower of color and of scent. 
Of song, of di'eam,~of nature's wonderment, — 
Let us fare, comrade, and what joy, forsooth, 
Should we there find the pathway back to youth! 



as. 



ROM THE Heart of the Hills 11 



THE PINES 

IN lofty galleries of gi-eeuery 
They rise and meet the azure of the sky, 
A pillared nave whose arches frail and high 
Breathe with an organ's solemn melody; 
Now like the minor surging of the sea 

Or low and faint as wing-s that startle by — 
As sweet-tuned winds that quaveringly sigh 
Adown dim aisles of cloistered pageantry. 

While through the stretches of this lovely fane 
The swaying censers shed a drowsy smell 
Heavy with some rare fragrance from afar, 
Upon the pavement falls the sunset's stain, 
The dusk creeps on . . . softly a twilight bell 
And now, the altar-candle of a star! 



T. S. J., Jr. 



12 From the Heart of tjojb Hill* 



LET US TAKE LEAVE OF HASTE 

HET us take leave of haste awhile, 
And loiter, well content, 
With little pleasure to beguile. 
And small habiliment; — 

Just a wide sweep of rain-washed sky, 
A flower, a bird-note sweet; 

Some easy trappings worn awry; 
Loose latchets for our feet; 

A wheaten loaf within our scrip; 

For drink the hillside spring, 
And for true heart-companionship 

The love of loitering. 

We want so much, and yet we need 

So verj' slight a store. 
But in the age's grip of greed 

We hurry more and more. 

The woodland weaves its gold-green net; 

The warm wind lazes by; 
Can we forego? can we forget? 

Come, comrade, let us try! 



C. S. 



From the Heart op the Hills 13. 



MAY EVE 

OVER the hill, over the hill, 
The dews are wet and the shadows long, 
Twilight lingers and all is still 
Save for the call of a faery-song. 

Calling, calling out of the west. 

Over the hill in the dusk of day, 
Over the hill to a land of rest, 

A land of peace with the world away. 

Never again where grasses sweep. 

And lights are low, and the cool brakes still- 
Never a song, but a dreamless sleep, 

Over the hill over the hill. 



T. S. J., Jr. 



14 From the Heart of the Hills^ 



WANDERER'S SONG 

^^^ HERE will be, when I come home, through the hill-gap in the west,. 
%^y The friendly smile of the sun on the fields that I love best; 
The red-topped clover here, and the white-whorled daisy there. 
And the bloom of the wilding briar that attars the upland air; 
There will be bird-mirth sweet — (mellower none may know!) — 
The flute of the hermit-thrush, the call of the vireo; 
Pleasant gossip of leaves, and from the dawn to the gloam 
The lyric laughter of brooks there will be when I come home. 

There will be, when I come home, the kindUness of the earth — 

Ah, how I love it all, bounteous breadth and girth! 

The very sod will say, — tendril, fiber, and root, — 

"Here is our foster-child, he of the w^andering foot. 

Welcome! welcome!" And, lo, I shall pause at a gate ajar 

That the leaning lUacs shade, where the honey-suckles are; 

I shall see the open door — farer over the foam, 

The ease of this hunger of heart there will be when I come home! 



C.S. 



From the Heart of the Hills ^ ^^ 

INTERLUDE 

f^OMETIMES from out the msh of pulsing days, 
jy These days whose poetiy was lost in prose 

So long ago, left desolate on those 
Far childhood paths— yet, sometimes from the haze 
Of half-forgotten years, fall on our ways 

Now drear, a strain of song, a June-blown rose. 

Ah, sweet, so sweet unto a heart that knows 
The memory of once-remembered Mays! 

Only a moment's interlude, and yet 
How the heart quaffs the draught that ever thrills 
Its soul, finding again youth's mysteries! 
What matter if tomorrow we forget — 
To-day the stillness of the sun-lit hills 
And the low drowsy hum of summer bees. 



T. S. J., Jr. 



16 From the Heart of the Hills 



HALCYON WEATHER 

nERE'S to the halcyon weather, 
And the wild, unfettered will, 
The crickets chirring, the west wind stirring 

The hemlocks on the hill! 
Here's to the faring foot, and here's to the dreaming eye ! 

And here's to the heart that will not be still 
Under the open sky! 

Ever the gipsy longing 

Comes when the halcyons wing; 
Once you own it, once you have known it, 

Oh, the thrall of the thing! 
A flute-call and a lute-call, quavering loud or low. 

It clutches you with its rapturing, 
And it will not let you go ! 

So it's hail to you, my rover, 

The god-child of the sun! 
In our heir-dom,— freedom from care-dom^ — 

You and I are one! 
One with the many migrants, field-folk feathered or furred, 

Ever ready to rally and run 
At the sign of the silvery word! 



% 



C.B. 



From the Heart of the Hills 17 



The ways we were wont to follow, 

We are fain of them no more; 
Eather the braided boughs and the shaded 

Paths by the rillet shore! — 
The tansy hints and the myrrh of mints, and the balms that the balsams 
shed. 

The hemes, crimson-sweet at the core, 
By these we are lured and led. 

Then here's to the halcyon weather, 

And the old, untrammeled will, — 
Cicadas tuning, the west wind crooning 

Behind the crest of the hill! 
Here's to the truant foot, and here's to the dreaming eye. 

And here's to the heart that will not be still 
Under the open sky ! 



C.S. 



From the Heart of the HiMiS 



I KNOW A QUIET VALE 

XKNOW a quiet vale where faint winds blow 
The silver poplar-branches all awry, 
And ne'er another sound comes drifting by 
Save where the stream's cool waters softly flow; 
Wild roses riot there and violets throw 
Their perfume recklessly, the while on high 
Great snoM^ clouds pillow the smiling sky 
And cast frail shadows on the grass below. 

All is the same, the summer stillness dreams 

In idleness across the sunny leas. 
Until for very drowsiness it seems 

The wind has gone to sleep mthin the trees — 
Yet we once laughed at what the years might bring, 
And now I am alone, remembering. 



T.S.J.,Jr. 



From the Heaet of the Hills 19 



WITHAL 

^tCHAT if the miles stretch out and bar 
Vly That you and I should meet? Why, even slili 
You are beneath this very moon and star 
Which I am watching from my lonely hill. 
And I can say low with a happy thrill; — 
You are not far, dear heart, you are not far. 



T. S. J.. Jr. 



20 From the Heart of the Hill 



THE MOON BEHIND THE PINES 

DISC as golden as the bowl 
Some sultan brims with luscious wines, 
Light floods as. though from its rich soul, 
The great full moon behind the pines! 

Drifting adown the seas of dark, 

Is it a galleon one divines? 
Aye, 'tis a wondrous treasure barque, 

The great full moon behind the pines! 

Feathered Endymion in the boughs 

Is lifting low and liquid lines 
To love in yonder amber house, 

The great full moon behind the pines! 

The night is full of wandering dreams. 
Truants until the morning shines; 

Fairest of all these visions seems 

The great full moon behind the pinei?! 



G. S. 



Fitoii THE Heart op the Hills 23 



LARGESS 

y^O see young April on her golden way, 
^^ Rosy with that first flush of early Spring, 
Her lips a flame to meet the mouth of May, 
Her laden arms, a fragrant offering. 

Or deep within the ferny woods to hear 
Soft echoes from the glades Aeolian; 

The whirring flight of Dian's brazen spear, 
The liquid notes amid the reeds of Pan. 

Slim Summer standing in a sea of corn, 
Her yellow hair a vagrant to the breeze, 

A crown of crimson poppies lightly worn 
Luring the ardor of the booming bees. 

And Autumn cinctured by a inisset gown, 
Her raven locks entwined with marigold, 

Oft straying where the fields have burned to brown, 
Or rustling through the stillness of the wold. 

These, these and more of this wide treasury, 
Wherein pale Beauty rears her perfect fane; 

Like some rich jewel-freighted argosy 

That sweeps the silver of the Grecian main. 



T. S. J.,Jr. 



From the Heart of the Hills 



These, these and more — the wonder of the dawn, 
The riot of rare tones in blossom-time, 

The stain of shadows on a sun-rift lawn, 
The call of waters in a dulcet chime. 

Ah, to have known such wealth of loveliness. 

Though through a web of pain and prison bars, 

Drunken the wine from out the dripping press, 
And heard the singing of the sun and stars! 



T. S. J., Jr. 



Feom the Heart of the Hills 23 

ADVENTURERS 

T^OV who have trackless deserts ranged, 
^ff* And Freedom's chalice set to lip, 
At heart we cannot be estranged, 
For I am of your fellowship! 

The tended close, the furrowed garth, 
The highways where men ride at ease, 

The sheltered seat beside the hearth, — 
Life's magic dwelleth not in these; 

But lurks within the hurrying storm 

That with the woodland hath its will, 
And with the wonder-mantled form 
That hides behind each beckoning hill; 

With the wide sunlight on the waste, 

And the mysterious whisperings 
That may, by ears attuned, be traced 

To the great heart of primal things! 

Ever the new adventure waits, — 

Happy the day when forth we hie! — 

Beyond the dawn's unmeasured gates 
The venturesome, discovering eye. 



C. S. 



24 From the Heart of the HiiiLs 



LONGING 

CAN this be Summer, though the gentle heat 
Has swept the roses on a wind of June^, 
And borne their fragrance to my aimless feet 
That go unheeding 'neath a ghostly moonf 

And all the poplars vague and motionless, 
And all the lights soft in a silver-gray; 

Can this be so, and with such loveliness — 
Can this be Summer, dear, with you awayf 

So hushed, so quiet where the shadows throng 
Across the pool between the starlight's stain, 

Watching in silence all the still night long. 
Watching in silence, and for you in vain. 

Summer and starlight and an hour grown late— 
And you who will not come, and I who wait ! 



T. S. J., Jr. 



Fbom the Heart op the Hills 25 

A SONG OF THE HILLS 

^^HE green hills, the clean hills, without 
vi!/ a stain upon them, 
When little vernal whispers breathe, and 

woodsy attars pass, — 
When all the glory of the Spring's rekindled 

life is on them, 
The beauty of the bourgeoned boughs, the 

glamour of the grass. 

The fair hills, the rare hills, what sight hath 
blither seeming, 
Than they reveal when Summertide sets 
seal upon the earth! — 
The meads below them gleaming, the sky 
above them dreaming. 
And not a tune save those that throb with 
melody and mirth! 

The old hills, the gold hills, with orient 
autumn o'er them, — 
The Autumn with her wonder-loom whereto 
she turns her hand, 
And lo, straightway upon them and about 
them and before them 
A web no mortal skill may match, not e'en 
in Samarcand! 



C.S. 



From the Heart of the Hills 



The white hills, the bright hills, with winter 
skies above them, 
The north wmd roaring round their 
crests, — how saga-like its song! 
Although the wild storm compass them, 
heart o' mine, we love them, — 
The cold hills, the calm hills, the staunch 
hills, the strong! 

The glad hills, the sad hills, — how joy 
and sorrow blended 
Engirdle evermore the paths where boy- 
hood's feet have clomb! 
Ah, how affection clings to them, and will 
till life is ended, 
The grand hills, the free hills, the dear 
hills of home! 



as. 



Pbom the Heart of the Hills ______«- ^ 

IN ARCADY 

gLTHOUGH 'tis but a memoiy. 
Still in the days of long ago 
We tended sheep in Arcady. 

Then were we both of fancy free 

And laughing Youth had much to show, 

Although 'tis but a memory. 

Again the pasture-lands we see 
Where in the golden summer glow 
We tended sheep in Arcady. 

And hear the tender harmony 

Of shepherd pipes that softly blow, 

Although 'tis but a memoiy. 

Nor thought of any end had we 
As through the grassvis to and fro 
We tended sheep in Ai'cady. 

So, what if life now empty be, 
Of all the past this do we know. 
Although 'tis but a memory, 
We tended sheep in Arcady. 



T. S. J., Jr. 



From the Heart of the Hills 



A CHILD OF GLADNESS 

eLAD have I ever been to roam 
Where honey and the honeycomb 
Their richest essences have causrht 
From blooms the dew and sun-glow wrought 
Into perfection ; glad to learn 
The music that the rippling burn 
Lilts to the overleaning fern 
And woven leaf -net; glad to find 
A comrade in the upland wind, 
And go with him a-gipsying 
Deep down the gold-green paths of Spring 
In search for the eternal clue 
Of happiness; and glad to view 
The buoyant bird-flight through the blue. 
And hearken every fresh-tuned flute 
The dearth of lyric song refute; 
Glad of the message of the snow 
After the Autumn's orient glow; 
Aye, glad to have a part in all 
Of nature^s fair processional! 



C.S. 



i^ROM THE Heart of the Hills 29 



THE AUTUMN WIND 

CHE quiet feet of the rain 
Stealing down from the hills, 
And the voice of the autumn wind 
That sobs and never stills ; 

The voice of the autunm wind, 
As sad as the mourning sea. 

And it sets astir the chords 
Of the harp of memory ! 

It sets the chords astir. 

And my heart throbs quick again 
With the old, old thrill of love, 

With its ecstasy and pain. 



as. 



36 From the Heart op the Hil 



YOU AND I 

OVER the hills where the pine-trees grow, 
With a laugh to answer the wind at play. 
Why do I laugh? I do not know, 
But you and I once passed this way. 

* 
Down in the hollow now white with snow 

My heart is singing a song to-day. 

Why do I sing? I do not know. 

But you and I were here in May. 



T, S. J., Jr. 



i*BOM THE Heart of the Hills 31 



HOW PERISHES THE POMP 

'fc*<OW perishes the pomp 

J_J5 That made a glowmg gloiy of the swamp !- 

The Persian purples that the asters wore, 

The sumach-ciimsons, and the ruby wine 

Of dye that decked the delicate woodbine; 

The golden ore 

Of coreopsis, and the scarlet lires 

Of interbraided briars! 



Soon, all too soon, 

Under the icy noon, 

The melancholy moon. 

Umber and ermine will the Year put on! 

Yet Joy forever waits 

A-tiptoe at the gates 

Of Grief, prepared to don 

Its radiancy of raiment once again, 

When the low word is spoken. 

And the chill charm is broken, 

And the earth hearkens, and the ears of men ! 



C.S. 



FOB you the white-wracked waste — yet not for me- 

The roar of tempests and the storm-god's song^ 
All that is sad and strange and sweet at sea, 
All that is fierce and strong. 

I too have tasted of the salt-sea wine 

And heard a-riot the wild winds at play; 
The heart's full heat, the joyous anodyne 
Of salt-sea spray. 

This, this at last — a quiet intervale, 

Kissed by soft lights and gladdened by the sun; 
You, of the curling surf, the blast, the gale— 
I, of oblivion. 




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